


Brushstrokes and Time Pieces

by HighlyOveractiveImagination



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Character Study, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, It's ambiguous but also really not, M/M, Mentions of dub-con, Slight Canon Divergence, They don't kiss is what I mean, really slight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 13:23:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16724226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighlyOveractiveImagination/pseuds/HighlyOveractiveImagination
Summary: Napoleon Solo knew Illya Kuryakin was dangerous, because he reminded him of a Monet.Illya Kuryakin knew Napoleon Solo was dangerous, because he reminded him of a clock.





	Brushstrokes and Time Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> There is a moment in this text where it is mentioned that Napoleon worked a previous mission as an escort under threats by Sanders to go back to prison. It's also mentioned that he isn't attracted to Victoria and finds her repulsive. Neither of these parts are explicit, but they are there. The section is short and it's labelled at the beginning and the end so you can skip over it if you'd prefer not to read it.
> 
> This piece is now available in Chinese thanks to a translation by the lovely dessert! Here is the link if you would like to read it: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19125337

Napoleon Solo knew Illya Kuryakin was dangerous before he even knew his name. He knew from the moment he saw his reflection at checkpoint Charlie in Berlin.

Napoleon knew because he had always been good at appraising people, as people are a kind of art, and Napoleon knew art.

Brush strokes, attention to detail, size and placement of the artist’s signature, these could tell you everything about a painting just as a person’s walk, clothes, and handwriting could tell you everything about them.

Napoleon could immediately tell the painfully conspicuous blonde that was tailing him into East Berlin was dangerous in the same way a Monet is beautiful.

It’s perfectly manageable from a distance, there is a clear image that is lovely enough to behold, but when you get close, the seemingly nonsensical combinations of colors and shapes can be…

Overwhelming.

Most would call it ugly, but it had always been the part Napoleon found most breathtaking. The big picture was beautiful, but the individual marks of paint carefully pieced and woven together were the real art.

So Napoleon knew he had better stay far away from the hulking stranger in the newsboy cap. Sure, he wasn’t harmless from a distance, but it was a hell of a lot safer than letting him get near.

It wasn’t until later that Napoleon realized just how dangerous that man was.

The American was standing with his gun stretched before him, the handle still vibrating from the two shots he had just fired into the tires of a yellow Trabant. Solo couldn’t see him, but he knew the spy was still alive inside the car, all he had to do was wait for his head to appear in the window.

However, Napoleon was reminded at that moment of the last time he had encountered a Monet.

He knew the Russian wasn’t actually a Monet, but the comparison had already been made in his mind and he couldn’t escape it now.

The last time he had gotten too close to a Monet, he had been arrested and sentenced to fifteen years in jail. Fifteen years of jail that had become fifteen years under the thumb of flat faced man with a cruel streak. That man, Sanders, was every bit as wicked as his crooked smile.

It was his own fault he had gotten caught.

The problem had begun when he’d fallen in love with the painting. He’d stolen plenty of pieces of art, but never for himself, he stole for the thrill not for the prize. This was different, he had seen the Monet and before he had even entertained the notion of stealing it, it had stolen him.

Stolen his heart anyway.

He resisted the temptation for months, but the attraction was simply too strong. He had to have it.

He reasoned that it would be alright to keep just this one. The owner only bought it because it was a Monet, he didn’t appreciate it the way Napoleon would, he didn’t feel it calling to him the way Napoleon did.

So he gave in to the unfounded and inexplicable desire, and planned a heist.

It wasn’t easy, they never were, no matter how at ease Solo appeared while in the act, but it was far from impossible.

Napoleon had the painting in his hands, he was ready to head out with it, and then something happened.

Two weeks later Napoleon made the mistake that earned him a decade and a half of indentured servitude to the CIA.

The Monet was not part of that 15 year sentence, because he hadn’t stolen it, and no one knew he had attempted to.

He was reminded of the whole debacle as he stared down the barrel of his gun in East Berlin. He was reminded because even though he didn’t know the other agent and had only seen a glimpse of him, he didn’t want to kill him.

Napoleon had killed before, yet he couldn’t bring himself to fire at the Russian spy clinging to the back of Gaby’s Wartburg 353.

He just couldn’t do it, there was something in his chest stopping him, something that had once betrayed him over a Monet.

And it was doing it again, only it wasn’t a real Monet, it was a man dangerous like a Monet.

So Napoleon breathed a sigh of relief when the man disappeared from sight behind the Berlin Wall. So long as he stayed far away, Solo would be safe.

Well, safer.

Until, of course, he appeared a few feet away in a public bathroom.

And it was just as overwhelming as Napoleon had predicted.

The American wasn’t weak, but he wasn’t a fighter. He could shoot a gun, pick a lock, act a cover, and talk his way out of some dire situations, but he had never been much good at fighting.

Illya Kuryakin was, and he thoroughly wiped the floor with Napoleon Solo. The American Agent had pretty much resigned himself to having the life squeezed out of him by an arm wound around his throat when Sanders’ Russian twin arrived.

When it was stated that he was Illya’s partner, the arm disappeared and Napoleon pretty much resigned himself to having the life squeezed out of him by his involuntary service to the CIA.

So for the time being, Solo couldn’t get far away from the dangerous Monet of a man, he would have to distance himself emotionally since it was now not an option to do so physically.

So he prodded a couple of Illya’s pressure points, bringing up the mother to really seal the deal.

With the contents of the table decorating the floor, Napoleon was confident that his new Russian partner hated him, which ought to keep him at bay, so mission accomplished.

If only Solo could hate him back.

It only got worse when they got to Rome. Napoleon tried to distract himself with other beautiful things, but neither the dazzling architecture nor the stunning receptionist did much of anything to dull the ache that the Red Peril inflicted on the Cowboy.

But a mission is a mission, and Napoleon didn’t become the best agent in the CIA by letting his emotions get the better of him.

Until they almost did.

Illya was drowning in a lake, and Napoleon almost left him behind. The part of him playing the part of an American who despised having to work with a Russian wanted to let him die, and the part of him that was slowly and painfully falling in love with a Russian wanted to let him die.

Because he would be so much safer if Illya was far away, and he would be truly safe if Illya was dead.

But he couldn’t do it, because as much as he wanted Illya dead, he needed him alive.

For the mission, and for himself.

So he saved him, pulled him up from the churning, inky water and nearly laughed with relief when he felt him cough up the water and replace it with air.

He saw it when Illya looked at him with just a bit less hatred, and wished that didn’t light up his heart as much as it did.

Because even when Kuryakin was saving him, Napoleon still felt like he was dying.

Then came Victoria. A woman that Napoleon found truly repulsive.

** Begin Section Involving Mentions of Dub-Con **

He didn’t care how pretty she was or how perfect her body was, she was vile. Like a sculpture, beautifully rendered and perfectly created, but made out of tar. He didn’t want to kiss her horrible, hollow smile or clasp her blood-soaked, murderous hands. But he did, because it was his job. And besides, he had been forced to do worse.

He remembered a mission where he had been tasked with extracting information from a foreign official, Sanders hadn’t batted an eye when he’d told Napoleon his cover was as an escort.

“The target won’t approach you until you’ve built a bit of a reputation through other clients, so you’ll have to do this all the way Solo, don’t even think about trying to wriggle out, or we’ll extend that sentence to twenty years.”

It had been hell. Never had Napoleon hated himself more than the month he’d spent on that mission. It had been excruciating, in more than just the physical sense. To feel so used, by the people who came to him, and by the country he was supposed to be fighting for.

Victoria Vinciguerra was just another tally mark etched invisibly onto his back.

** End Section Involving Mentions of Dub-Con **

In this way, he understood Illya better than the Russian would ever know. Napoleon had felt the desire, bordering on madness, to overcome shame, it had driven him to excel just as it had Kuryakin.

The following morning he found himself in a terrible mood, and he was always more on task when in a bad mood.

Then, he heard the concern in Illya’s voice, noticed the way he referred to Gaby as a “lamb”, and his damned heart cracked down the middle.

Illya loved Gaby.

Napoleon knew it shouldn’t have killed him as much as it did, but the one part of himself that he’d never had much control over was that infernal engine thumping in his chest.

So he provoked Illya and was glared out of the room for his troubles. On the balcony, he collapsed onto the railing and shook, since his pain couldn’t be allowed to manifest in tears, he let it out in violent trembling.

He went back inside after he felt calmed down enough, and regretted it the moment he say Illya and Gaby moments away from kissing.

As if things could get any worse, Victoria drugged him, and called him by his first name, he wasn’t sure which was worse. Had he been in control of his body, he would’ve made it clear how that repulsive woman did not have the right to dirty the name his mother had lovingly called him with her lying mouth.

Of course it got worse, much worse.

Napoleon awoke strapped to a chair, and Victoria toying with him as though she was something desirable in his eyes.

Then came the pain, the excruciating pain that seemed to tear through every nerve in his body.

The pictures that followed filled Napoleon with a horrible certainty. He was going to die. It was going to be unimaginably painful. And no one cared enough to save him.

This realization was accompanied by an unwelcome memory, it was the same memory that caused him to abandon the Monet he had loved. It was the memory of the first Monet he ever encountered. Not a painting by Monet, or a person like a Monet, but a person named Monet.

Jacob Monet, from New York, New York, a soldier that had been part of Napoleon’s unit back in the war.

Everyone in the unit had made fun of the kid, since he was the youngest, and also because his name was hilariously ironic. He couldn’t draw, something the other soldiers reminded him of quite often.

“Monet couldn’t draw a stick figure if his life depended on it.” Napoleon had once said.

Two months after that he held that boy in his arms, and crimson blood soaked his hands as he tried desperately to stop it from pouring out of a hole in Jacob’s chest.

Monet had laughed, causing red droplets to pepper his lips, and spoke.

“I shoulda been an artist.”

“You would have made a terrible artist.” Napoleon said, trying to keep his friend hopeful, and trying to keep himself from falling apart.

“I know, but I made a terrible soldier too, at least being a terrible artist wouldn’t’ve gotten me killed.”

And then Jacob Monet died.

So when Napoleon looked down at the Monet painting in his hands, he saw Jacob’s face, and understood why he had fallen in love with it, and also why he couldn’t steal it.

So beautiful from far away, so complicated up close. Every ugly little mark, every messy brush stroke, all secretly perfect, coming to make something so stunning. He couldn’t bear being that close, getting to know and love all those little pieces only to watch as they all turned red with blood and died in his arms. Only for them to fall in love with somebody else instead.

Only to recognize himself in those brushstrokes. He could be so pretty from a distance, so perfect and put together. A charming smile, a tailored suit, not a hair out of place, a smooth compliment or a sharp retort. He kept people at bay by appearing so immaculate, they never bothered to get closer when they liked what they saw from afar. And Napoleon was safe, but at the same time… wasn’t there someone who would look a little closer? See how horrible and broken all the pieces that made him up were, all those imperfect brush strokes, and maybe love him anyway?

Maybe, love him more?

And then, many years later, strapped to a chair, Napoleon is reminded of his friend when looking at those terrible pictures, reminded of all the things they were fighting against, and how he has failed to stop any of them.

Then pain overcomes him, for what seems like ages he is convulsing under the straps that hold him in place. He can’t help but scream after a while, he can’t hold it in, because he feels like every cell in his body is dying.

Then, it stops for just a moment.

That moment is the present.

Napoleon has given up, he simply closes his eyes, not hearing whatever it is that Rudi is saying. No one is coming for him, and there’s nothing he can do to save himself. He’s going to be a series of color photographs on a page in a scrapbook, a couple of still images to capture an immense amount of pain.

Then he looks through the window, sees the guard collapse from some kind of assault, and right after that Illya walks into sight.

Napoleon has never been so happy in all his life, he doesn’t care about anything else, Illya Kurkyakin is the most stunning work of art he’s ever laid eyes on.

 But he knows he can’t show this through his expressions, nor is he given a chance to, because Rudi pushes his foot back down on the pedal, and the electricity courses through Napoleon once again.

It is right then that Illya Kuryakin realizes how dangerous Napoleon Solo is.

The American’s body spasms horribly, his hands, legs, and head straining against the leather straps as he jerks.

Illya’s stomach drops, and his hand ball into fists.

He rushes over to the other entrance and throws it open, expecting Uncle Rudi to turn in response to the noise, but he can’t hear the Russian spy over Napoleon’s screams.

They echo in the tiny room, and through Illya’s heart. They are raw, Solo isn’t holding back anymore, he no longer has the strength to.

Illya feels his blood turn to ice and fire at the same time as he sees a smile slide across Rudi’s face.

Red fills the Russian’s head, and the horrified “Oh God” that had been repeating on loop is replaced with a sheer animalistic urge to destroy the man doing this to Napoleon.

So he smashes the doctor’s head into his desk and throws him to the floor. His foot comes off of the pedal, but the electrocution doesn’t stop.

Illya throws one glance to Napoleon, blood is pouring out of his nose, his eyes are rolled back into his skull, and his screams are beginning to sound like crying, like the American just cannot take any more.

So the Red Peril rips the entire box with the wires out of the wall to stop the pain. Because what’s happening is killing him as much as it is Solo.

He doesn’t understand why, but he is suddenly flooded with emotion for the man that was made his partner. He can’t let the Cowboy die, he just can’t, not for the sake of the mission, but because he cares about him.

Illya rushes to his side and tears off the straps, pulling Napoleon’s limp body out of the chair.

His eyes are closed.

“Cowboy!” He shouts, and panic floods him when he receives no ‘Peril’ in response. “Wake up! Come on, you are not this weak, are you?” He hopes the jab will illicit something, it doesn’t. “Napoleon!” Illya cries desperately, his voice wavering slightly.

The man in his arms opens his eyes and smiles weakly.

“Peril…I never thought I’d say this, but I’m actually quite pleased to see you.” He states weakly.

Illya sighs in relief and drops his head down so it’s nearly against Napoleon’s chest. He quickly pulls away though and stands, offering the American his hand. Solo doesn’t move though.

It causes Illya’s stomach to lurch, in anger and concern, but he speaks with his usual bite.

“What is matter? Can’t you handle a little shock?”

Napoleon laughs and grabs Illya’s hand to be pulled to his feet where he stands shakily. Not letting go of the American’s hand, Illya asks

“You ok Cowboy?”

“I’m fine, we need to figure out our next step.”

“Gaby betrayed us.”

“I know, but we still have a nuclear bomb to keep out of the hands of Nazis, so we’ve got some errands to run before we deal with Gaby.”

Rudi gives them everything they need, and Illya kills him before Napoleon can suggest any other course of action, though he probably wasn’t going to.

They get help from a man named Waverly who is far too polite, which lets Illya know he’s none too pleased with the two agents.

When Illya is told on the radio to kill the American if he has to, something in him sticks, like when he throws punches in his nightmares and they go out slow and soft and he feels unbearably helpless. Because he’s known from the beginning that Napoleon is dangerous, but he’s only now realizing how dangerous he really is.

When he’d seen the man at Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin he’d been reminded of a family heirloom that had belonged to one of his father’s colleagues. An ornate, gaudy clock that sat above his fireplace collecting dust. It was gold and polished wood with a shining mother-of pearl face and the numerals accentuated with glittering stones. A different gem for each hour. It never told the proper time, but the man would always point to it when Illya and his mother visited his home. He boasted of its worth, and how long it had been in his family.

It was a useless, pointless piece of junk. Illya was forced to sit very straight in a chair and watch the seconds tick by when his mother “visited” this old colleague of his father’s. His father, who, by that time, had been dragged from their home, fighting and crying and begging to speak to his son one last time.

Illya hated that damn clock. To him, it was everything wrong with the world. There it sat, worth more than everything he owned, worth more than what his father had made and probably more than the money he had embezzled to keep up the appearances expected of a man of his position. There it sat, not even telling the right time, when that kind of wealth was supposed to have been redistributed among the people, make them all equals again, wasn’t that what they’d been promised by the very government this man worked for? There it sat, ticking off the seconds while his mother did what she had no choice but to do, having been told by so many of his father’s “friends” that if she didn’t they might tell their superiors some unfortunate things about her and her son and they’d end up in a Gulag as well, because who would believe her before a handful of celebrated party-members?

Illya hated that clock. And from the first sight, he hated Napoleon Solo. He knew Solo was dangerous because, just like that clock and all it represented, he was used to getting his way, and being afforded all the things Illya had been denied. Dangerous because no wasn’t an answer he would accept, and no matter how terrible his actions, he could always find a way to win back the affections and favors of others. The only thing more dangerous than an entitled man, is an entitled man who is capable.

And Napoleon was capable, exceedingly so. Their first encounter told Illya that much. And from that moment onward his hatred only grew. Napoleon’s weakness in their fight, his arrogance, his constant and precise insults. All of it. Illya could do all of this without the man, but he had to be there, having his way, so at ease and unflappable.

Illya had dealt with that disgusting clock by moving past it, and proving he was better than it. No family heirloom could accomplish what he could, and he could dig his way up through the shame of his past if he just worked hard enough. Solo would never admit it, they never did, but Illya would prove he was better if it killed him.

Which it almost did, he realized as he coughed water out of his lungs, held afloat and dragged ashore by Napoleon himself. He had been afraid, for a brief moment, when they returned to the hotel, of what Victoria Vinciguerra might do to him once she found out what he’d done. He was ready to bolt upstairs and fight if need be. After all, Solo had saved his life, had gone for him, had risked it all for him, perhaps he wasn’t as much like that clock as Illya had assumed…

Then came the rhythmic thumping and the moaning through the bugs Illya had planted. It stung, for some reason, it stung like a slap to the face. Illya decided that it was just anger, at having been drawn in, even for a moment. That he had been deceived by the gilded exterior like anyone else.

But no, Illya knew what Napoleon Solo was, he wasn’t about to mistake him for anything else, not again.

Turns out Illya had been suspicious of the wrong person.

Gaby, who he had made him feel safe in a way that no one else had in a long time because she seemed so honest. Such a frank woman, others might call her uncouth or rude, but Illya felt like he didn’t have to hold his breath around her, and when she was close he could get a full lungful of air for the first time in what felt like his entire life.

Then came the betrayal, and damn if that didn’t leave Illya feeling like he’d been dropped into a vacuum, as if all the air had been taken out of the world. In the chaos, Illya fumbled for something to hold onto, and that something turned out to be Napoleon. He’d had to hold back a groan in the moment.

He’d hurried to get to the man, sure, but not as much as he could have. He’d felt confident that Solo could handle himself, he looked like he’d never been out of control a day in his life, but Illya thought all this against the rising tide of a deep fear.

Then came the facility, the chair, Rudi, the absolute terror that the Cowboy wasn’t going to wake up.

That’s when Illya realized why Napoleon Solo was actually dangerous.

Holding the man in his arms, he’d been reminded of an entirely different family heirloom. A watch. A plain and efficient watch, but nonetheless a distinct piece. It had been purchased by Illya’s father when he was a young man, and he’d gifted it to Illya the same day he was taken away. He’d pressed it into Illya’s hands with a warm smile and a tight hug.

That watch was the most dangerous thing Illya owned. Because, just like that golden clock on the fireplace, it was just a thing, he could live without it, but he didn’t want to. It mattered to him. To him, it was worth the world.

Little by little, Solo had changed from that ugly thing that represented all that Illya despised, to the watch that he had worn on his wrist, ticking away like the echo of his father’s heartbeat. Because, though Illya had tried to see Napoleon as the former, the little chinks in the armor forced him to look a little closer, get a little nearer, and realize it was all an act.

Napoleon Solo wanted the whole world to think he was perfect, because people keep perfect things. If anyone got too close, they’d see that Napoleon was a human being, complicated, emotional, broken in odd places, and imperfect. And people only keep imperfect things if they love them.

Like Illya’s watch, with a scratch through the face and a buckle that didn’t close all the way anymore and the second hand always running just a little slow. But Illya loved that watch more than anything in the world, all of those things included. In fact, he loved it more for all the ways it wasn’t perfect. Just like his father and his mother. Just like him.

So he silently thanked whatever powers made Napoleon open his eyes after the chair, because he’d gotten rather attached to the Cowboy.

But there isn’t time for that, there’s only time for the debrief with the British man and his team. Then there’s only time for the preparation for, and execution of, the infiltration of Vinciguerra Island. Then there’s only time to drive after the warhead and Gaby like the world depends on it. Which indeed it does.

When Illya opens his eyes after wrecking his bike he sees Napoleon getting knocked to the ground by Alexander Vinciguerra. He sees him losing this fight just like he lost their fight in the bathroom because for all his talk, Solo’s not a fighter, not in this way.

But Illya is.

Not a moment too soon, he’s tossed half of a motorcycle onto Alexander and a moment later he’s cut his life very short with a very sharp knife. And Napoleon is alright. He hesitates to go check on Gaby when he sees the man wince, but a short nod later has him walking away.

Napoleon doesn’t want him close. He’s been pushing him away since the very beginning, he wants nothing to do with Illya. The Russian tells himself that’s fine, even after his revelation, because he doesn’t want to get closer to the American.

So he holds Gaby in his arms and tells her it will all be alright, and he tries to take a deep breath only for something to stick inside him and his lungs only fill up some of the way. It’s still more than he’s used to, but it’s not what it was. He doesn’t feel safe anymore, not completely.

So he thinks they’ll have time, to talk it over. Him and Gaby, him and Solo. Gaby and Solo…that won’t be a pleasant conversation, what with everything her betrayal, mission or not, allowed her uncle to do.

But it turns out there isn’t time for that, because this isn’t the right bomb, so there’s only time to figure out how they’re going to save the world.

Tick tock.

There’s only time to get back to the aircraft carrier. Then there’s only time to prepare the bomb to blow the boat Napoleon found to smithereens. Then there’s only time to get Victoria’s signal on the radio. But in the end, there’s just time enough, and in the blink of an eye it’s all over.

Napoleon looks about as tired as Illya feels. He wants to reach out to the man, shake his hand or pat him on the shoulder, something, but they’re all being taken away by doctors who examine their injuries and tend to what wounds they can.

The next day, Illya almost kisses Gaby. It feels good, it feels so close to being able to get a full breath again, but still not quite. Maybe, if he had more time with her they could get there someday.

He answers the phone and receives his instructions.

He must destroy Napoleon Solo.

He starts by destroying his room, that much is easy, but it’s just a delay before what he’s meant to do next. He reminds himself that he hated Napoleon once, for everything he represents, like the clock on the fireplace that he would have smashed to pieces in a heartbeat given the chance. But that’s not what Napoleon Solo is, Illya knows better now.

He tucks his gun into his jacket and tries to breathe. He can do this, he can rise up through the shame and prove that he’s better than any of the worthless junk that the people who judge him value.

He knocks on Napoleon’s door. He pours them both a drink. Why does the man have to look so sad? He’s making chit chat like he always does but Illya can see through it so easy now, even though he wishes he couldn’t. Solo’s back is turned, like he’s purposefully making it easy for Illya, and the charm is melting away like wax around a candle wick. So Illya is left holding his gun in his jacket and looking at Napoleon’s back, which is tense, his shoulders are drawn, he’s not wearing a jacket. He seems sad, and scared.

Then with a single sentence, Napoleon turns and tosses something to Illya. For a moment, the Russian’s heart leaps, thinking it might be an attack, but it isn’t, then his heart leaps for a completely different reason.

It’s his father’s watch, and the moment it’s fastened around his wrist Illya looks up and sees its familiar face in the Cowboy’s face. Imperfect, something Illya could live without. But he doesn’t want to.

They tell each other the truth, and Napoleon shows him the tape. He looks so sad as he regards Illya, as though he’s certain that the Russian is going to kill him. His hands are in his pockets but it’s clear he’s unarmed.

Illya walks closer, and Napoleon looks frightened, but resigned. Once Illya is close enough to touch, Solo looks up, and smiles.

It’s the first genuine smile Illya’s seen on the man’s face, and it’s beautiful.

Napoleon looks up at Illya, so sure that the man is going to put an end to his life, and why shouldn’t he? Solo’s his enemy, and he’s been an asshole since they met. He always knew he’d be done in by a work of art, never thought it would be a hulking Russian with terrible fashion sense.

Then Illya leans over and pulls him into a hug.

It’s about the last thing either of them expected. It’s very tense for a long moment, but then Napoleon lifts his arms and hugs Illya back. The Russian is surprisingly warm, and Napoleon decides to throw caution to the wind.

When Illya feels the American tuck his head into his chest, burrowing closer as if seeking safety, it makes him pull the man tighter. Napoleon against him feels familiar in the best way, and he can feel the other man’s heartbeat like the ticking of a clock.

They stand like that for a while. Illya wants to see every imperfect brush stroke that makes Napoleon up and fall more in love with each of them. Solo wants to take the time to prove to Illya that no matter his history or the value others have assigned to him, he’s worth everything to Napoleon.

And, as they learn a little later after burning the tape and sharing a drink, since they’re working together now, they’ll have plenty of time for just that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it. I don't often write introspective stuff like this, and I hope it didn't feel too much like a summary of the movie. This fic has been sitting unfinished in my files for a very long time, and I got the urge to finish it after re-watching the movie. I want to write more for this pairing, since it's one of my favorites, but ho boy do I have scarcely a minute to spare and other fics I need to update.  
> Anyway, leave a comment if you enjoyed this piece, they're the emails I look forward to most!  
> Thank you!


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